


The Difference Between Destruction and Deliverance

by Ealasaid



Series: A City In Shadows [15]
Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: AU, M/M, Mobsterswitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the while, during those years when Midnight City was built up and a new sort of civilization was being formed, Scofflaw skulked in the shadows and observed the people that came in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Peccant Scofflaw really hated it when people didn’t laugh at his brilliant jokes. Sure, sometimes they weren’t  _that_  great, but couldn’t people see he was really just trying hard to convince them to like him?

So okay, maybe he wasn’t actually trying to do that most of the time. He just liked to use the pretense of socializing to blunt the fact that he really hated almost everyone.

Scofflaw trusted no one, and if he possessed the degree of self-analysis and interest in reflecting on his past actions, he could probably come to the conclusion that he hated that he trusted no one. If he really thought about it, the issue probably stemmed from broken loyalties to the Black Queen way back when he worked as her right hand, politically speaking. But that’s not something Scofflaw tended to want to acknowledge, so he just smiled and charmed and slithered his way through the dregs of Midnight City.

A few exceptions to the rule were Angry Delinquent and Pernicious Innovator, but just barely. Heinous Doxy he could rely on in a pinch, but Nefarious Bawd had her own agenda most of the time. But the ease at which Scofflaw could bribe and blackmail officials and manipulate and maneuver people generally underscored the fact that trusting anyone was a mistake and that even upstanding citizens had a price—something Scofflaw deplored as much as he took advantage of it.

And all the while, during those years when Midnight City was built up and a new sort of civilization was being formed, Scofflaw skulked in the shadows and observed the people that came in. Almost everyone scrabbled desperately for a living, at least from the beginning. It broke a lot of people, drove them to the bottom and left them hollowly empty of meaning or morality. But there were some who bounced back even after having been brought low; people who kept scrabbling for existence long after their survival was assured, people possessed of quiet self-worth at having built a life out of nothing. These were the people who never gave up, who never lost faith in whatever it was they believed in. These people fascinated and infuriated Scofflaw, because he couldn’t understand how they stayed unbowed after years of depredation and hardship.

Deep, deep down, the thought grew through the centuries: that he was one of those broken people. Scofflaw never really vocalized this fear, but increasingly he came to hate the people who seemed like they had so much to live for. To compensate, he turned industriously to expanding his power and influence, and did his best to bring such people low whenever he ran into them.

Then one Snooping Scout fell across his radar.

Snooping Scout was an anomaly in the spectrum of people who had been broken and people who had remained unbowed. The most obvious evidence of this was his constant hopping over the line of what was legal and what was not, an intriguing game of skip rope. Scout could commit some pretty dastardly crimes—some sneakily plotted assassinations, a great deal of theft, a smattering of arson—and yet he continued to cruise right back to the straight and narrow, though he could never be considered a guy who was ever entirely legal.

Scout wasn’t one of the broken people, but neither was he upright in any sense. It was more like he  _had_  been broken—and as Scofflaw’s interest grew, he began to inquire more and more into the past of this fascinating creature and was left wondering, because all the evidence was pointing that actually having happened—but had somehow, through sheer force of will, perhaps, remade himself.

This was remarkable because cloned Dersites and Prospitans weren’t  _supposed_  to change. It was a thing they didn’t do. Their natures were set in the beginning, and the harder the nature was set, the easier it was to break. Perhaps as a consequence, the population of Midnight City was steadily becoming more flexible as a whole, as those who couldn’t cope broke, and, in most cases, were killed through illicit activities or personal hatred.

In fact, Scout couldn’t be easily classified on any moral scale. Most of what he did caused little to no lasting damage to his victims, and by the same token he didn’t really go out looking for trouble—in definite contrast with Scofflaw, who felt that all damage should be lasting, and was not above instigating small-scale wars for his own amusement. Scout did illegal things, but he still ended up working as a detective on the side of the law.

It was really no surprise that Scofflaw began toying with the younger man. He just _had_  to see what made Scout tick; why  _he_  could walk away from his past neither black nor white, but someone so grey you couldn’t pin him down.

It was fun, too. Scofflaw hadn’t expected that. He approached Scout with the same work ethic that had ended the war and left thousands wandering a never-ending desert and with just one goal—to see if he could break the man of grey. So he worked his charms and rough-and-tumble seduction on the young Scout and wound up getting attached.

Scofflaw started enjoying purposefully running into Scout in random bars and empty alleys. He liked making the man laugh, feigned and otherwise. He took great pleasure in taunting him in trivial banter and, later, teasing the guy heatedly in corners tucked (mostly) away from prying eyes. It was especially intoxicating when Scout kept on coming back for more, even after Doxy took his arm off in jealousy at how much attention Scofflaw was paying the detective.

He wasn’t sure when it happened, but some point along the way Scofflaw got addicted. He didn’t realize this until after he nearly ended it all, after Innovator accused him of becoming too distracted and took matters into his own hands to ensure his boss and comrade wouldn’t end up too deep.

He’d dipped his lover into the river and watched him shiver, and waited for the man to break. But he didn’t. He spat back on Scofflaw’s face, swearing to the end even while incapacitated by pain and some shadow curse thing. And so Scofflaw made the split second decision to leave Scout alive—at least, to leave him somewhere alive. Whether Scout could survive was up to chance, not Scofflaw.

So he washed his hands of Scout in yet another alley and set off on his way whistling some tune he’d heard Doxy sing a few nights back, finished (he told himself) with mucking around with people of inconsequential status.

A month and a half later sans Scout, Scofflaw lost his fraying temper so badly he destroyed the bar he was drinking in and stormed back home to sulkily nurse a few drinks in his empty apartment. Mere days later, he threw down with Innovator, because Scofflaw found Deadeyed Detective visiting on the pretense of having tea. Even worse, Innovator chose to stand up to him over it. Scofflaw justified it by declaring “an eye for an eye,” but reacted more to the unfairness he saw in Innovator keeping one of the Meddlesome Company while putting Scofflaw into a position to give up his own lover.

Reconciling took a while, but after that Scofflaw ceased making a show of not caring. He did care, unfortunately far much more than he should. So he started haunting Scout again, fisticuffs (which declined after a time) and all, and continued courting him as though he hadn’t almost killed his boyfriend.

Finally there came a stroke of immense fortune: Scout slipped up and killed someone, leaving enough witnesses that it would be impossible to wriggle out of a conviction. He, quite reasonably, fled. Scofflaw tracked him down and made an offer, through which the mobster hoped to achieve two things: one, the acquisition of a skilled fighter; and two, more importantly, the breaking of Scout.

Scout hesitated a long time. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to be around the mobster, Scofflaw knew. The detective hated hating Scofflaw almost as much as Scofflaw was learning he hated hating Scout. No, Scout hesitated for some other reason—but Scofflaw didn’t know what it was. In any case, the offer was accepted.

Things changed. Scout didn’t have trouble taking to the criminal enterprises the Twilight Scoundrels engaged in, and with the last formal barrier—the one between lawkeeper and lawbreaker—broken, had no trouble reciprocating Scofflaw’s advances. He was in better financial straits and spent much of it on alcohol and cigarettes and several nice new black suits.

(And still—and still—there was something off about it, like maybe he still had some reservations about being a part of the toughest group of criminals in Midnight City.

But Scofflaw didn’t let it bother him. Instead he dragged Scout into bed every night and didn’t let him leave until they were both satisfied.)

And still, he hadn’t broken Scout. Scofflaw didn’t know how he knew that, but he  _knew_ that though the trappings had changed, Scout was still Scout. He had stepped over to the other side of the line—but he still didn’t instigate violence. Some days it seemed like he actually went out of his way to  _avoid_  it, unfathomable in the previously pugnacious young man.

The most striking thing Scofflaw noticed about it all was the fact that though he was spending exponentially more time with Scout than he ever had before, it was becoming harder and harder to stay away. He spent more time making Scout moan than making plans and running his outfit, and he  _couldn’t stop_. It was like he had become a junkie and his drug was having Scout pant under his capable hands, snarling and whimpering half threats in a rough voice as Scofflaw teased. Remembering the time Innovator had accused him of being distracted, Scofflaw could only but laugh, because that was nothing compared to what he was doing now.

(Sometimes when he was with Scout, Scofflaw didn’t muse about broken people and how he might be one of them. Sometimes, when Scout looked at him after Scofflaw revealed secrets about his enterprise and Scofflaw saw awe and admiration, the mobster thought that maybe he’d come out of the end of the war and the Black Queen’s reign still undaunted.)


	2. Chapter 2

“Detective,” Scout says from where he’s slouched at your kitchen table, moodily toying with one of his knives, three months after he killed the guy in the bar and disappeared.

“Scout,” you say, and slowly close your door behind you as you enter your apartment. “This is a surprise.”

“Is it?” he asks oddly. “Thought you would’ve expected it sooner or later.”

“Well yeah,” you reply. “I expected it sooner.”

He shrugs and tosses the knife aside. It buries itself in the wall three feet away. “Thought I’d drop by and say hi,” he says, voice uncharacteristically devoid of meaning.

You hang your coat by the door and take the time to loosen your tie and pull off your suit jacket. “It’s a pleasure,” you say politely. Scout’s clearly uncomfortable with being here, and you wonder why he came if that was the case.

He lets the silence drag on as you come into the kitchen and start pulling out the necessary accoutrements for tea. “Would you like some?” you ask, indicating the kettle with a nod of your head.

“No thanks.”

More silence. You busy yourself putting water to boil.

“I’m sorry,” he says, abruptly.

The shock of it is enough to freeze you in place for a moment, caught calculating the amount of time it’ll take for the water to heat up. “What?” you say, turning around to look at him. You can’t keep a note of incredulity from your voice.

He’s got his hat off and it’s clasped in his metal hand; the other is buried in his wild tangle of hair and he’s huddled over the table, half looking at you and half looking at the floor. “I’m… sorry,” he grates out, and he looks frustrated, like he wants to sink into the floor or burn down the apartment but can’t bring himself to do it. “I didn’t mean to kill that guy. It was an accident.”

You lean against the counter and fold your arms over your chest. “Yeah, so?” you say. You feel a flash of irrational anger, because there’s no point to be apologizing  _now_ —everything’s already fucked anyway.

He looks at you sharply and sees something, maybe. He stands up smoothly and claps his hat back on. “Yeah, well,” he snarls back. “I’m just… sorry I left you short a guy.” He steps shortly to the side and yanks his knife out of the wall aggressively, back to you.

You sigh. You know Scout, he’s your man. Or he was your man. But he’s touchy and snarly like a terrier, especially when he’s doing something he feels guilty about, and you think the apology is genuine. “I know, Scout,” you say quietly.

He just stands there and his shoulders hunch a little at your words. The teakettle starts to whistle.

“Sure you don’t want some tea?” There’s an invitation there. He’s one of them now, sure, but he’s still Scout.

“Nah. I should get back,” he says after a pause. He turns back around and tips his hat at you. “Let the fellas know I say hi.”

“Can do,” you say. He heads for the door and is on the threshold before you add, “Come by for drinks sometime, Scout.”

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll be in touch.”

*********

You haven’t stopped feeling so bad, but the apology made it a little easier to bear. Was embarrassing as hell, though. You hate apologizing, but the fucking guilt for leaving the Meddlesome Company with such a dismal flop was really getting to you.

You stalk down the streets, daring anyone to get in your way. You’re a Scoundrel now, and they know better than to fuck with you. It’s the part of town where cops don’t venture much, so you don’t have to worry about the law either.

You’re still uncomfortable being in the spotlight, but it’s starting to grow on you. Becoming a Twilight Scoundrel was exchanging the spotlight for murder for the spotlight of notoriety. Everyone knows who you are, even if you don’t necessarily know who they are. It’s starting to get a little better, though—you still stick to the shadows even though you don’t really need to be in them. The team is a little crazier—Angry Delinquent and Pernicious Innovator instead of Cheerful Demoman and Heavy Brawler—but it’s still recognizably a team, and they’re fairly okay with you joining up. All in all, you think, it’s not so bad a future as you thought you’d have three months ago.

An arm snaked out of the shadows and pulled you behind some buildings. “Hello,” your boyfriend whispers before covering your mouth with his.

And there’s this, too, you think as you push back willingly against the shadows.


End file.
